


It's The Perfect Place For Guys Like Us

by Dusk



Category: Angel: the Series, Star Trek: Enterprise
Genre: Crossover, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-05-03
Updated: 2012-05-03
Packaged: 2017-11-04 19:02:54
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,304
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/397158
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dusk/pseuds/Dusk
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Shran finds himself in a strange bar.</p>
            </blockquote>





	It's The Perfect Place For Guys Like Us

**Author's Note:**

> Slightly cracky crossover, but not outside the realm of possibility, given that we never did establish a canon lifespan for Lorne's species. No specific point in time, but would fit nicely right before Shran's appearance in 'These Are The Voyages...' No spoilers for that episode, though.

It was a strange, strange bar on a strange little station that had survived three local border wars and twice as many invasions and looked like it was hanging on to structural integrity by sheer will-power, and Shran honestly had no idea why he was even there, but it was a bar, there was an oxygen atmosphere, and plenty of the offered liquids were palatable to carbon-based lifeforms and contained alcohol, and he'd lowered his standards a lot in the last few years. He couldn't identify most of the life-forms present any more than he could identify the drinks, and he didn't intend to bother trying. 

He wasn't there for the company.

Somewhere off to one side the caterwauling that someone present probably thought was music came to an end and a quieter, more rhythmic thumping replaced it, something pre-recorded and forgettable that blurred the conversations around him to a fluctuating background sound. With the details of language and content lost, the noise of the crowd could've been in any bar on any of a hundred or more planets, and it briefly felt less obtrusively alien.

The feeling lasted until a green hand set a glass of pink liquid in front of him and gently removed the empty one he'd been toying with.

"I didn't order that," he said, neither looking up nor taking the drink, but the – waiter?-- just laughed and didn't move away.

"I know. It's on the house, honey. I can't resist breaking up a good brood and yours looks like it's a winner."

The voice was odd, neither thaan nor chan – not that it could be, this far out – but probably male, more or less. That wasn't what made him look up, though. At first glance he took his benefactor for an Orion, but a second look took in red eyes and a set of truncated matching antennae that looked more like horns than anything else, and clothing that, while unfamiliar, was too tailored, too coordinated for any Orion he'd ever heard of. A related species? Perhaps, but he doubted it. The universe was vast enough that the skin colour could easily be a coincidence. He narrowed his eyes, but the man just stood there, amusement easily read on his prominent features. Something about what he'd said wasn't right, though.

"On the house?" he repeated cautiously, though that wasn't what'd snagged in his mind.

"On the establishment’s credit chit," the man clarified, and without invitation seated himself across the small table, sliding easily onto the tall stool. 

"This is your bar?"

"I'm the host," his companion agreed with an easy smile. His lips matched his eyes – and horns - but the colour was too flat to be natural. "I couldn't help but notice that your glass was empty and your heart heavy."

The sense was clear even if he wasn't sure what his pulmonary system had to do with anything. "If you're the proprietor, only the first part of that statement is any of your concern," he growled, but the warning either never registered or the host was above such things, as the smile never wavered. A green hand – with nails that same flat, glossy red – pushed the glass a little closer to him. "No, thank you."

"You're not even going to try it?"

"It's *pink*," Shran said.

"Very observant," the host said lightly. "Pink seemed like what you needed. It's a Sea Breeze."

Shran pushed the glass away. "Andorian. We don't do salt water."

The host pushed it back. "No sea water, I promise."

It seemed pointless to push it away again – if he had to tolerate another alien's company, the least he could do was take the accompanying free alcohol – so he lifted the glass and tasted it with the hesitation of someone who's spent too much time in alien bars to down anything in one go. To his surprise it wasn't bad – the pink no doubt came from fruit juice of some kind, but the burn of honest alcohol wasn't entirely hidden and he took a longer swallow. The host nodded approvingly.

"That's what I like to see."

"No salt," Shran agreed. "So why is it called a sea breeze?"

A shrug. "It's light, refreshing, and sometimes it's just what you need to gather your scattered thoughts and start thinking more productively."

He still didn't get the connection, but he wasn't about to start deconstructing another species' relationship with oceans, so he just nodded. Then his swirling, disordered mind finally identified the discordant element and he pointed at the host accusingly.

"Honey!"

The host grinned. "Yes, sugar?"

He refused to be distracted. The rest of the statement, the whole conversation, was in the local trading esperanto, but that word he recognised from somewhere quite different.

"You're not Terran," he said cautiously.

Another shrug. "No point denying that," the host said.

"I'd be amazed if you'd even seen any out here," Shran continued.

"You'd be surprised how many people find their way here, but your point stands."

"But honey is a Terran word. And a Terran substance. And, contextually, a term of endearment that I'm not at all sure is appropriate, but let's leave that for now."

"Lets," he agreed. "And, more importantly, can't make a good Bee's Kiss without it."

Shran ignored that as irrelevant. "How do you have Terran vocabulary?"

"Oh, I spent some time there."

Shran looked him up and down dubiously. The host buffed his red nails on his jacket, which was gold and blue and – Shran checked again – parts of it glittered. It should've clashed horribly with the green and red, and somehow didn't.

"Doing what?"

"Same as always, sugarpuff. Serving drinks, setting people on their path. You wanna sing for me?"

Shran's antennae stilled at the non-sequitor. "Excuse me?"

The host nodded towards the small stage, currently empty and only dimly lit. "Open mike. Give us a song and I'll tell you what I see. Of course, in your case you don't have to," he added. "I've already done everything I need to do here. But the option's still there if you just feel like sharing a show tune or two." 

"I'm not going to *sing* for you," Shran said darkly. No amount of free alcohol would induce that. The host didn't looks surprised.

"No, I didn't think so. You broody types, you need to learn to let go, you know? Relax, it's not like the world will end." He considered. "Well, probably not. But listen, I want you to think about this, okay? Drink your drink, spend some time with your friends." He got to his feet. "There's a Betazoid about to walk through that door who needs me a lot more than you do, so I'll leave you to it. Nice meeting you, come back any time, tell your friends." He essayed a wave, already en route to the next customer to harass, and Shran turned his attention back to his drink, part of him turning over the strange alien's comments. Unlikely as it may be, he'd seemed to think he knew what he was talking about.

The drink was still a ridiculous shade of pink, but it went down well enough. Then he put the pieces together and growled to himself.

Pinkskin.

He should've thought of that himself, would've if he hadn't been too close to everything to think clearly. How long had it been? It didn't matter.

He set the glass down, his mind made up. He glanced over at the bar's unusual proprietor as he left, but the host was deep in conversation with a worried looking pale-brown being and he decided not to interrupt just to tell him to keep his large nose out of other peoples' business or, alternatively, thank him. As he walked out the door, he still wasn't sure which he would've gone with.


End file.
